Married Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  S? Who the hell was—? Oh, Stephanie, of course. How had she got his number? She must have looked at his phone while he was asleep. Mariner didn’t much like the idea of that. Nice message, though, especially the ‘gr8.’ Hmm, he was fit, healthy and gr8 in bed. What more could a woman want? ‘Shame there won’t be a next time though, Steph,’ he murmured, and pocketed the phone again without replying.

  * * *

  Arriving in CID Mariner expected to find everyone hard at work, but as he walked in there appeared to be a party in progress.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, taking the paper cup proffered by his detective sergeant, Tony Knox. ‘It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Relax, there’s no alcohol involved,’ DCI Davina Sharp grinned from within the huddle. Tall and elegant, today she was wearing a beige trouser suit that perfectly complemented her caramel skin. ‘You can blame this on me.’

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ Mariner asked. She couldn’t be pregnant, surely?

  ‘Andrea and I are tying the knot,’ Sharp said. ‘I proposed to her last night.’

  Mariner raised his cup towards her. ‘Congratulations, ma’am. I hope you’ll be very happy.’ Mariner meant it. Though they’d only worked together a short time, his respect for the gaffer was growing daily. One of few female DCIs in the city, and mixed race and openly gay at that, he knew that she had taken her fair share of flak, albeit covertly, from certain other senior officers. Mariner had felt proud from the start that none of his team had considered either her gender or her sexuality to be worth a breath of station gossip, and it was typical that she’d wanted to share her good news with them.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So what happens about a ring?’ Tony Knox asked. A working-class scouser with traditional views, even he’d been exercising unprecedented discretion. ‘Do you share it, or fight over who gets to wear it?’ His years in the Midlands had done nothing to diminish his accent.

  ‘That’s the beauty of a gay engagement,’ said Sharp. ‘We get one each.’

  ‘Well, make sure you get a good ’un, boss. Then when it all goes tits up—’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Tony,’ Sharp retorted amid protests from some of the others. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Now all we need to do is get you two losers fixed up,’ said Sharp, looking pointedly towards Mariner and Knox.

  ‘Yes, but who’d have them?’ DC Jamilla Khatoon chipped in.

  ‘I’ve been there,’ Knox reminded them, rubbing a hand over his shaven head. ‘Once is enough for me. It’s him you need to work on.’ He gestured towards Mariner.

  ‘Way too late,’ said Mariner, holding up his hands in defence. ‘I’m a lost cause.’

  A phone rang persistently on one of the desks, and the celebration began to break up. ‘Well, thanks for all your good wishes, ladies and gents,’ said Sharp. ‘But there’s work to be done.’

  Millie had answered the call. ‘Don’t make yourself too comfortable, boss,’ she said, seeing Mariner heading towards his office. ‘We’re wanted in interview suite three.’

  ‘What’s down there?’ Mariner stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Brian Mann,’ Millie said. ‘He’s talking to a woman who’s getting some funny phone calls.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Christ, not another one,’ Mariner said, as he and Millie descended the stairs. The face of Jemima Murdoch had only just left the front pages of the national papers. Around a year ago she had complained to an OCU in the north of the city that she was being followed and that her life was being threatened. Faced with flimsy evidence, the officers on the case had labelled her neurotic and failed to take her complaints too seriously. They’d paid the price only a matter of weeks ago, with two fatalities; Murdoch’s stalker, her ex-boyfriend, stabbing his prey to death before cutting his own wrists in the full public glare of a busy local shopping centre. It had made a whole lot of the top brass determined that it wouldn’t happen again.

  ‘Tenner says it’s a duff,’ said Millie. Her flippancy was born of frustration. Since the Murdoch killing any reported incidents had to be followed up, and the policy played into the hands of every attention-seeker on their patch. While the number of harassment cases appeared to have risen significantly, the vast majority turned out to be false alarms.

  ‘Any detail on this one?’ Mariner asked, as he and Millie came to the ground floor. Some of Sharp’s dress sense was rubbing off on her, Mariner noticed. Not long out of uniform Millie could dress more flatteringly for her fuller figure now and wore a sleek outfit that the DCI might have worn, her long hair pinned up.

  Millie shook her head. ‘Only that Brian thinks it’s worth our time.’

  ‘I understand you couldn’t get across to my place last night?’ Mariner said.

  Millie turned in surprise. ‘Oh, I could have come, no problem, but Kat called and asked me not to come. She said that I didn’t need to; that the two of you were doing something.’

  ‘But I was out,’ Mariner said. ‘She told me you cancelled.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Millie shaking her head. ‘What time did you get back?’

  ‘This morning,’ said Mariner, reluctantly.

  Millie raised an eyebrow. ‘And how did she seem?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘So maybe this is good,’ was Millie’s conclusion. ‘It could mean that she’s ready for some independence again.’

  * * *

  Suite three was one of the station interview rooms that had a softer touch, designed like an ordinary domestic lounge — a domestic lounge complete with recording equipment and CCTV, that is. As Mariner knocked and pushed open the door, Lucy Jarrett looked up from where she was sitting. Dressed in shapeless clothes over a slim frame, she had an English rose complexion, with pale blue eyes and pink cheeks. Her brown hair hung loose to her shoulders. She glanced uncertainly back at PC Mann, trying to figure out what was going on.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Mariner and Detective Constable Khatoon,’ Mann explained. ‘I’d like you to tell them what you’ve told me.’

  ‘Inspector?’ Jarrett eyed them apprehensively. ‘Isn’t that quite senior? I’m not sure that this justifies—’ Her voice was clear and devoid of a regional accent. As she spoke, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. A nervous habit, Mariner thought.

  Mariner took a seat across the low table from the young woman, and Millie sat beside him. ‘That’s for us to decide,’ he said. ‘We just want to hear what you have to say. We take these kinds of incidents very seriously.’ Now.

  ‘Well,’ she tucked her hair back again, ‘as I told PC Mann, I’ve been getting some nuisance phone calls. I mean, I know they shouldn’t bother me, but they’re quite scary really.’ The casual phrase wasn’t fooling anyone. It was at odds with her posture; she leaned forward, shoulders hunched and hands jammed down between her knees.

  ‘Does the caller say anything?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘Only the first time.’ She swallowed hard. ‘He said: “You bitch, I’m going to make you suffer.”’

  ‘That’s all? No hint about why or how?’

  ‘No, and he hasn’t spoken since. All I get now is a creepy silence at the other end, or this awful raspy breathing.’ She was visibly reliving the experience. ‘I tried blowing a whistle loudly down the phone once but it hasn’t deterred him.’

  ‘You’re certain it’s a man?’ Mariner wondered.

  The shadow of a doubt crossed her features. She had been, but now he’d asked her she wasn’t so sure. ‘Well, I assumed . . . the voice must have made me think that, but I couldn’t be certain. I suppose I thought it was more likely.’

  ‘You’re right, it is,’ Mariner conceded. ‘But unless you’re sure, we need to remain open to the idea that it might not be. How many of these calls do you get each day?’

  ‘I was getting about half a dozen; always at home in the evening,’ she said. ‘They usually stop at about eleven pm. Now, unless I’m expecting someone to call I unplug the p
hone. And before you ask, yes, the number is always withheld.’

  ‘And how long has this been going on?’

  ‘About a month, I guess. The phone always seems to ring the minute I get in the door.’

  ‘Always?’ Mariner checked.

  ‘I’m sure he must be watching me,’ she said, with a shudder. ‘He knows exactly when I get home.’

  ‘Unless he just keeps calling until someone picks up,’ suggested Millie.

  Lucy nodded thoughtfully. She hadn’t considered that.

  ‘Have you noticed if there’s a pattern?’ Mariner went on. ‘Is it every night?’

  She frowned. ‘It never happens while my husband is at home.’

  ‘Is he away often?’

  ‘He travels a lot with his job.’

  ‘And you never get these calls while he’s there?’ Mariner clarified.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What does your husband do?’

  Her hands were in her lap now and she was twisting the ring on her left hand. ‘He’s a musician.’

  ‘What kind of musician?’

  ‘Folk-rock mostly. He plays the guitar and the mandolin.’

  ‘Would we have heard of him?’ asked Millie.

  Lucy forced a smile. ‘Probably not, but he plays in the Leigh Hawkins Band.’

  ‘Ah, him I know,’ Mariner returned the smile. ‘Is there anything else?’ he prompted gently.

  ‘This is going to sound silly,’ she was apologetic, ‘but this last week I’ve had an impression of being followed, in my car.’

  This would make things easier, Mariner thought. ‘Do you know the make or model of car, any of the numbers or letters on the registration?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it’s been at night, after dark, on my way home from work. He gets much too close.’

  ‘Lots of people drive too close, in a hurry to get somewhere,’ Mariner pointed out. ‘How do you know it’s the same car?’

  ‘I just do,’ she said. ‘It always gets behind me at the same place, with the headlights full on. It feels as if he’s trying to run me off the road.’

  ‘And it’s happened every night this week?’

  Lucy thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No. Two, maybe three times. It happened again last night, I’m sure.’

  In Mariner’s experience, when a comment was qualified with ‘I’m sure’ it generally meant the opposite. He leaned forward on his seat, resting his forearms on his knees.

  ‘Mrs Jarrett, let me tell you a little bit about what we know of stalkers. These days it’s generally accepted that there are different types, and we need to consider what type this person might be. The most common type is what we call the “intimate partner” stalker. This is a partner, or more usually an ex-partner, who finds it difficult to accept that a relationship has come to an end. They can’t let go. Most people are stalked by someone they know. Can you think of anyone who’d want to do this, to frighten you?’

  ‘Nobody.’ She was adamant on that.

  ‘Any ex-boyfriends who didn’t want to let go?’ prompted Millie, gently.

  ‘No, I know what you’re thinking,’ said Lucy. ‘I read about Jemima Murdoch and her boyfriend in the papers, but there’s no one like that around for me. Will and I have been together for just over a year, and before that I was single for a while. That’s what I don’t understand. There’s no one I can think of who’d want to do this to me.’

  ‘What about your husband? Any ex-girlfriends who might be jealous of you?’ Mariner thought he saw something in her face then, but it was only fleeting.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ she said, less certainly. ‘I mean, we have talked about exes, but probably not all of them. And most of my husband’s previous girlfriends aren’t even in this country. He’s American. He hasn’t lived over here for that long; about six years.’

  ‘You said that he’s away working?’ said Mariner. ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Later today, why?’

  ‘We’ll need to talk to him.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’

  Mariner sensed a hesitancy, but he let it pass for now. ‘There still remains the possibility that this has something to do with him,’ he said. ‘We need to rule that out.’

  ‘But Will doesn’t know anything about it, really,’ her anxiety levels seemed to be rising.

  ‘We will need to talk to him anyway.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ But she didn’t sound too sure.

  ‘What line of work are you in, Mrs Jarrett?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘I’m a health visitor.’

  ‘And you’re working today?’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Yes, I should have been in first thing, but I cancelled this morning’s appointments.’

  ‘What I’d like to do is accompany you back home to check over your house and make sure it’s secure. It’s just a precaution. Would that be all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then we’ll take it from there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Her relief seemed palpable.

  * * *

  While Brian Mann escorted Lucy out to her car, Millie and Mariner collected their coats from CID. The wind had dropped today but the air remained chill.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mariner asked, as he and Millie descended the stairs again.

  ‘She’s not very relaxed, is she?’ Millie said, understating the case somewhat.

  ‘Something must be . . .’ She broke off, interrupted by the sound of Mariner’s personal mobile.

  This time he automatically lifted it to his ear.

  ‘Hi, it’s Steph,’ said a woman’s voice.

  ‘Steph?’

  ‘Stephanie.’ The voice cooled slightly. ‘You woke up in my bed this morning.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Shit. ‘Look I’m sorry I had to rush off like that—’ Mariner was suddenly acutely aware of Millie beside him. ‘You know, things to do, places to be . . .’

  ‘That’s fine. I expect you’re busy. You didn’t tell me you were a policeman.’

  No. ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, I sneaked a look in your pockets while you were asleep.’ And went through my phone. ‘Don’t worry,’ she chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t have read anything personal.’ Oh really? ‘A policeman, eh? How exciting!’

  ‘Is it?’ said Mariner.

  ‘Oh, yes. Anyway, I was wondering, when can I see you again?’

  They had reached the external doors. ‘Look, Stephanie, I’m in the middle of something right now,’ Mariner said. ‘I’ll have to call you back.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ She sounded deflated. ‘But make it soon, won’t you?’

  ‘Soon, yes.’ Mariner ended the call and for some reason felt compelled to explain. ‘The woman I saw last night,’ he said, with an apologetic glance at Millie.

  ‘She’s keen.’

  ‘Mm, a bit too keen,’ Mariner said, absently.

  * * *

  They met Lucy Jarrett in the car park and Millie travelled with her, in a smart Mercedes convertible that was less than a year old, while Mariner followed in his own car. They didn’t have far to drive. Lucy Jarrett’s house was of the sort that was becoming commonplace on a newly created mixed estate of luxury apartments and houses, constructed on the site of the former Cadbury family home, a short way off the main Bristol Road. Although extensive, there was only one road leading into and out of the complex, which was going to be helpful, and it was the kind of quiet residential area where anyone loitering would be noticed. Number nineteen was a three-storey town house, identical to those on either side and with, Millie guessed, at least four bedrooms, and a substantial garden. The women got out of the car as Mariner pulled onto the drive and Millie hung back to wait for him while Lucy Jarrett unlocked her front door.

  ‘There’s a bit of money here,’ Mariner murmured, taking in the surroundings.

  Lucy opened the door onto a pile of post, mostly plastic-wrapped catalogues, and as they stepped in behin
d her, Millie stooped to retrieve some of them.

  ‘You’re popular,’ she said. ‘All we ever get in our house are brown envelopes.’

  ‘We seem to be getting more and more of these,’ said Lucy, scooping up the rest.

  Millie noticed a catalogue for a nursery design company and another for maternity clothing. ‘You’re planning a family?’ she asked, handing it to the young woman.

  Lucy Jarrett took it. ‘No.’ She studied it, bewildered. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It’s just, this is quite a big place.’ Millie glanced around her.

  ‘I know. It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ Lucy said. ‘Come on through.’

  Turning left off the hallway, they followed her into a large kitchen that, like many in the newly designed houses, was at the front, overlooking the street. It gleamed with granite and polished steel. ‘You moved in when you got married?’ asked Millie.

  ‘No, I was already here when I met Will. My dad died a couple of years ago so I came into some money. I decided I wanted a bit more space, and to move to somewhere greener. Plus it seemed like a good investment.’ She picked up the kettle and took it over to the sink. ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Millie said. ‘White, no sugar for me.’

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Mariner. ‘I’ll leave you to it and take a look around.’

  The house was all mod-cons. The coffee made, Lucy took Millie into the lounge, where a giant flat-screen TV and home cinema system took up one wall, and when they sat, Millie sank so deeply into the expansive cream leather sofa that she thought she’d never get up again. ‘It’s a lovely house,’ she said, encouragingly, thinking of the modest home that she shared with her husband Suliman.

  Lucy took the recliner that backed into the bay window. ‘Thanks. Yes, I do like it here. Well, I did. It freaks me out a bit at night now.’ She sat hunched in the chair, coffee mug cradled in her hands.

  ‘What are your neighbours like?’

  ‘Fine, I mean, I hardly know them, just to say hello to in passing, that kind of thing.’ She was concentrating on the mug, and so avoiding Millie’s gaze. ‘The houses are new so none of us have been here very long.’